


My Grain

by Wolfscub



Category: Loki - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Caretaker!Loki, Caretaking, F/M, Fluff, Loving!Loki, References to Spanking, Slight Dom!Loki, Slightly Dominant Loki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 20:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4151988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfscub/pseuds/Wolfscub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Loki takes care of his love when she is unable to do so for herself due to illness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Grain

**Author's Note:**

> None of my usual warnings apply.
> 
> This fic contains no sex at all, although it does have references to discipline, so if that idea bores you, you'll wanna skip this.
> 
> Overall, though, it's about Loki looking after his love while she's sick - kind of awkwardly and uncertainly, as I imagine he would.
> 
> Based on actual events . . . although with someone who is not at all awkward or uncertain about how to take care of me - and he definitely knows how to make toast. :)
> 
> And it's damned near impossible to find a pic of Loki looking tender or loving, so you'll have to use your imagination.

Loki knocks at your door, not really knowing even why he's here except that he felt a particularly strong pull towards you - stronger than usual, that was, and somewhat off . . . different . . . and, although he'd spent a few minutes trying to ignore it, he had quickly found he could no longer do so. He'd always been able to . . . feel you, somehow, in a strange way he's never experienced with anyone else, and, as he stood there growing more and more concerned, something about that feeling right now was fairly screaming at him that all was _not_ right with you.

Staring resentfully at the door, he wondered at what a change you've wrought in him - that he's letting something so small and ridiculously inadequate as a wooden plank with a frail looking lock stop him from getting to you when he wants to.

But you had told him in no uncertain terms that he was not to simply _appear_ in your apartment, as he originally had an unnerving habit of doing - that he was to observe all the usual Midgardian courtesies and wait _outside_ the door - after having knocked _politely_ and waited to be _allowed_ in.

Or not, depending on how cantankerous you were feeling, or what he'd done recently that might have thoroughly annoyed you.

And he had done his best to comply with your requests without whining, which you also informed him was unacceptable, not that any of this set well with him. You knew it didn't, but maintained your stance, even in the face of his obvious displeasure.

You weren't going to allow him to bulldoze you, and you thought that that was something about you that he - however grudgingly - admired. You didn't fawn all over him like all the other women he met who seemed to be dying to throw themselves at his feet and do anything he asked as long as they could be around the God himself.

You knew he was of a mind that your requirements were quaint and that he'd indulge you and heed them, but you didn't much care what was going on in that busy, quagmire of brain of his, as long as he did as you asked.

Surprised that it's taking you so long to respond, Loki calls out, "Beloved? I know you are in there. Come let me in. My arms ache for want of you . . ."

Meanwhile, you are lying on your bed, not twenty-five feet away from where he's standing, in the throes of a massive migraine. If he agreed to come in and behead you, you'd let him in even if you had to crawl the whole way to the door. Your brain feels as if it's on fire, swollen too big for your head and it's going to burst through your skull at any moment, and at this point, you're quite willing to let that happen if it will bring you some relief. Your peripheral vision is completely gone, and what's left is blurry at best. The entire apartment is as dark as you can make it, cave-like, all windows closed against any loud noise, plus blackout curtains drawn in your room, but it's not enough to even come close to alleviating your pain.

Nothing has ever been enough.

None of the meds your doctor has prescribed - even the injectables - have touched it. 

You just have to ride it out, never knowing how long it will last, knowing you'll live through it but almost wishing you wouldn't.

You heard him knock on the door a few moments ago, knowing instantly that it was Loki. Even his patient knocking sounded impatient.

Then he was saying something - something that sounded wistful and loving and didn't seem demanding or angry in the least, although any sounds that came to you might as well have been considering how they added to your misery.

Oh, dear God, now he was pounding on the door, and you couldn't even muster the strength to beg him not to - certainly not to yell anything at him. Just the mere idea of doing so made you nearly retch over the side of the bed.

Since not even his fist on the door draws so much as a peep from you, a worried Loki didn't hesitate for a second before ignoring the locked door entirely in favor of finding you. Once on the other side, his eyes scan your small apartment, immediately breeching - silently - your bedroom door by simply walking through it, leaving it closed - to stand next to your bed, watching you moving restlessly, unable to find any semblance of a comfortable position, looking, as he had heard you describe some poor, sick soul at one time or another - that might have been him when he'd been struck down months ago with food poisoning and you had taken exquisite care of him - as looking like death warmed over.

Kicking himself for kowtowing to your sense of propriety because it had kept him from getting to you faster, he frowns down at you, experiencing the unnerving feeling of being at a loss about what to do for you. "What is it, my lovely one? You are obviously hurt but I see no overt wounds. What is wrong?"

You know he's there, know he doesn't understand what's happening to you, and you muster all of what remains of your cognitive capabilities - which isn't much - to groan, "Migraine." And you know then that you're finished being able to communicate any further until this is over. That was it. That's all you can do.

"My grain?" Loki repeats, confused.

You roll away from him, pretty much dismissing him. He's not going to remember what you said to him in passing when you'd first begun to date in regards to your bouts with these debilitating headaches, so you don't much care what he does or doesn't do. It won't affect you anyway.

He continues to mutter under his breath. "My grain. My grain." It was all you'd said to him after what looked like a great effort, so he knows it must be a huge clue. Loki wracks his brain, sifting through all of his exchanges with you - he automatically forgets the majority of his interactions with Midgardians - and Thor - as just so much blather, but he'd consciously remembered every word you'd ever said to him, and it seemed that those memories might now be of use.

"My-grain." Finally, it comes to him - you had mentioned that you sometimes fell ill to a particular horrible type of headache and it was called a my grain.

He recalls that you had said that the only things that helped - there was not even any Midgardian medicine for it that worked for you - was to be in a dark, quiet place and to try to sleep, if you could, and that, if you couldn't, then you just had to "ride it out".

That last idea was abhorrent to him. He couldn't imagine watching you writhing in pain for an indeterminate time - for _any_ amount of time.

He couldn't take you to Asgardian healers, because he was not allowed back there. But he is determined to do whatever he can to help you.

At first you were too wrapped up in your own misery to notice what he's doing, lying in a ball in the middle of the bed.

But eventually you could hear the ocean playing very softly in the background, which you always found comforting, even at times like this, as long as it was kept low. He must've found and turned on the app you listened to every evening to get to sleep. It played automatically through your bluetooth speaker. 

But that didn't explain how the bed began to rock very slowly, very gently, back and forth, as if it was a hammock in a light breeze rather than a king sized monstrosity that Loki had insisted on buying for you that barely fit in your room.

But there was no denying it. You, the bed, and Loki were definitely rocking, and it, too, was somehow quite soothing.

You didn't much care to investigate exactly how this was happening. Thinking - like everything else in your current existence - hurt, but this was helping, as much as anything could. You didn't - couldn't - much care if - with his little caretaking moves - he was destroying the rest of the world with his other hand. That was their problem, not yours at the moment.

The bed depresses behind you as he enters it, and you feel him curl his long length around you, surrounding you with the warmth and comfort of his close presence.

His low, soft voice penetrates the well of pain you find yourself in. "Relax as best you can, my darling. I will take care of you. There is nothing for you to do but to feel better. I am here now, and I _will not_ leave you."

He holds you then for what seems like hours, although you truly have no idea just how much time passes, and you know that he hasn't tasked one of his duplicates to be here in his stead - this is Loki himself. For no particular reason that either of you can fathom, you _know_ when it's not him. His copies of himself somehow set off a warning, of sorts, in you, an itch in your mind that tells you that it's not really him, and you know just what an honor it is that he is spending so much of his time with you in a completely altruistic pursuit. 

And how unlike him it is - although, truth be told, he'd never treated you with the sneering disdain he did others, like Tony Stark. He'd only ever been polite and courteous, attentive almost to the point of being courtly, as well as both verbally and physically affectionate and quite protective of you, with distinctly dominant tendencies that sometimes left you sleeping on your stomach, however thoroughly sated.

At times he is simply there, strong arms around you, trying to will you his strength to get through this. Other times he presses a cool palm to your forehead, which helps a bit. Occasionally, he massages your shoulders and back with a gentleness you were sure he has never displayed to anyone else, and, when you seem particularly uncomfortable, unable to prevent yourself from clutching at him and weeping softly, he murmurs soft nothings and hugs you to him, kissing your tears away and sounding as anguished as you feel at the suffering you're having to endure.

When at one point you struggle out of his arms, he is very reluctant to let you go.

You can get out only one, urgent syllable.

"Pee!" 

Your struggle ends abruptly with him carrying you into the bathroom and depositing you on the toilet then, in a surprisingly gentlemanly move, turning his back to you.

Not even caring to be embarrassed at this point, you simply do what you needed to do, but as you rise Loki takes you into his arms again, bringing you back to bed, resuming his previous position as your pillow, sitting up a bit against him, trying to sleep as massages your temples and scalp with light, delicate motions of his fingertips. 

But as he settles you into place, you are awake enough to watch the spell you hadn't known he'd cast drape seamlessly over the two of you, and realize that he'd arranged that the bed had been suspended over one of your favorite spots on the coast where you grew up, which had provided the soft sea breeze and the ocean sounds you had thought were from your phone. And that the bed _was_ rocking slowly, floating near the shore on what seemed to be a soft, summer night, just above the waves, almost close enough to feel the spray from them.

You even catch sight - before he changes it, looking slightly embarrassed - of the deep blue hand he has been pressing to your forehead.

You want to thank him for everything he's doing, but can't find the words in your jumbled, agonized head.

As if he can read your troubled thoughts, Loki tucks you further into his arms, kissing your forehead gently and whispering, "Sleep, my darling, and feel better. You are to do nothing more than that until you are recovered."

Finally, the combination of his tender ministrations - those hypnotic hands that relax you almost against your will - and your own exhaustion at the inner battle in which you were engaged did ease you into a sleep that was deeper than usual, which, upon waking, you realize with a start could definitely be attributed to Loki's presence.

The second your eyelids flutter and open to meet his obviously concerned ones, his hand cupping your cheek, but he doesn't inundate you with questions, even though you know he must have been dying to know how you were feeling. Instead he merely holds you tightly, allowing you to awaken slowly, the bed still swaying, the waves still crashing beneath you.

Eventually, you find your voice in a head that isn't wracked with pain, although you can still feel the echoes of it and you're still tentative in your speech, just in case it should come roaring back, whispering hoarsely, "I feel better, Loki."

Taking his cue from you, his movements slow and deliberate, he hugs you tightly but carefully, his voice low and reassuring as he replies with genuine relief, "I am so glad, angel. I am so sorry you had to go through that. Do these head aches bother you often?"

"Much less so than they used to when I was younger. I only get . . . five or six a year, I'd say."

Loki frowns deeply. "That is unacceptable. I shall see if Thor can consult with the healers on Asgard about them. They might have a remedy that is not known of on Midgard that he could bring to me." His arms tighten about you again. "I _cannot_ \- I _will not_ \- allow you to be in such pain," he vows vehemently, coloring a bit in embarrassment at his own fervor, then confessing endearingly, "It . . . disturbs me."

Far be it for you to be happy that he was unhappy, but that is kind of how you're feeling. It's lovely of him to be so upset about this. It kind of gives you hope about him that you might not have had, otherwise.

"How is your stomach?"

"Fine, I think. Why?"

Loki eases himself into a sitting position, laying you gently on the bed beside him to lean over you, his hand splayed on your tummy. "Because I think it has probably been some time since you ate, and I think you should have something light."

"I'm not very hungry . . . " you begin to protest, instantly leaving off at his look.

A dark eyebrow has risen far up on his forehead. "I did not mean to imply that I was offering you a choice in the matter, my darling. I will bring you some weak tea and toast, and you shall eat every morsel of it."

Although you didn't want to set a dangerous precedent, you find yourself automatically answering, "Yes, Sir," despairing of your goal acutely when, upon hearing those words, a smile spreads across his face that is at once both deeply self-satisfied and purely unholy.

"Now _that_ is the response and attitude I expect to hear from you," he praises, pressing his lips to yours for a feather light kiss, then heading into the kitchen.

"Don't get used to it," you murmur under your breath as he leaves, causing him to turn back to you, framed in the doorway that the top of his head barely clears, fixing you with a gaze that doesn't even try to disguise its warning nature.

"What did you say, kitten?"

 _Jesus, his voice!_ Even though you're barely recovered, your panties are now a useless, drenched rag between your legs - and he wasn’t even touching you!

"I said be careful in the kitchen," you lie loudly, hoping the volume will distract him from what he probably did hear, despite his question.

Another grin only made him look just that much more devilish, many degrees darker and more dangerous than he had ever seemed to you - a complete one-eighty from how he'd been all afternoon, although his next words were said in an almost too bland manner.

"That is what I thought you said. You rest. I shall return momentarily."

And when he did return to you with a tray of tea for two as well as several somewhat blackened pieces of buttered toast that had you having to suppress a smile, he didn't just set it down between you as you thought he would. Instead, he let the tray hang in mid-air while he arranged you on his lap, then proceeded to hand feed you from it.

Your first bite of toast was rather tentative, although you are surprised to see that he seems to be awaiting your approval.

"Crunchy," you say with as much enthusiasm you can muster while the black bits grind your teeth to dust.

He looks at the piece of toast as if it offends him, saying - with a surprising amount of disappointment - "It does not look like it does when you make it."

Touched at his misgivings about his . . . well, cooking, such as it was - you pat his hand. "It's perfect. Just the right, light thing I need, as you said." Your heart aches as he gives you an almost grateful look at your kindness.

"Well, perhaps you need only eat one slice."

"Good idea. I have no idea how much burnt toast it takes to become carcinogenic."

He looks alarmed, pulling the piece he's offering away from you. "I do not wish to give you cancer!"

Again, your heart contracts painfully at his words. "It's a joke, Loki," you say softly, taking another bite as well as a swallow of the tea he offers immediately, with which to wash the charred embers down. "Burnt toast won't hurt me in the least, I promise."

Your meal finished, he disappears the entire mess, then reclaims you, turning the both of you on your sides and pulling the covers up over the two of you.

"But I'm not sleepy!" you whine, against your own rule. "I just got up!"

But Loki is resolute. "You're recovering and you need to rest."

"But -"

His hand moves to cup your bottom, and that is all the warning you need, although it doesn't stop him from adding, "You are already getting a spanking for making me think I could make you sick with badly made toast." He squeezes that ample roundness a bit more tightly, then pats it with a deliberate firmness. "And for cheekily suggesting that I should not get used to you addressing me in a manner that is only right and proper for you to use."

_Damn his Vulcan hearing!_

"I might suggest that whining at this moment is probably not your best approach if you wish to sit down after tomorrow morning, when I shall address all of your misbehaviors with you."

With a deep frown both on your face and in your voice, you reply, "Yes, Sir."

_And damn his all too sexy, smug looks, too!_

"Much better. Now sleep."

But after a few sleepless minutes, you ask quietly, "Will you tell me a story?"

You can feel him smiling into your hair, although he can't resist teasing, "And just how old _are_ you, my love?"

You give him a revenge wiggle for that comment, moving your bottom enticingly against his front, which is quite eager for such attentions and has been - quite consistently - since he first appeared in your room - and your life. "Old enough that I enjoy the sound of your voice very much."

"So much so that it puts you to sleep," he chuckles.

"I find it very soothing, as you may have noticed earlier."

Before he can begin, though, you want to address what's been keeping you awake - just how to thank him properly for what he's done for you. You don't think you feel well enough just yet to do what you _really_ want to do for him in repayment for his kindness, but this'll have to do for the time being.

So you just come right out and say it, somewhat hesitatingly. "I - I want to thank you for that, too, Loki. You've helped me - voluntarily - when most men would have taken one look at me and run for the hills."

"I am _not_ most men," he states gravely, those strong arms contracting around you. "You do not need to thank me, little one -"

"Oh, but I _do_. You were perfect - even in just deciphering what was happening to me. You did everything I'd told you I needed to have done that I'd said to you once, in a casual, insignificant conversation we had when we first met. You held me, you consoled me, you did your best to make me comfortable at a time when you knew nothing was probably going to help, but you made the attempt anyway . . . the ocean and the bed rocking and the massaging, letting me sleep on you. . . carrying me everywhere . . . You were so patient and loving. You never made me feel like a burden or made me think you questioned the validity of what I was going through . . ." You ran out of steam and into embarrassment. "I - thank you. I appreciate everything you did, and I think you probably shortened the bout by a half."

He turns you slightly in his arms, his fingers beneath your chin so that you must look up at him, breathing huskily, "No conversation with you will ever be insignificant to me. And I will always do everything in my power to try to help you feel better. It was an interesting - albeit horrible - experience because I do not think I have _ever_ felt so terribly powerless, and that is not something I am used to feeling in any case - but with you . . . " You can feel his big body shudder just at the thought. "But I am glad that I was able to help in any way at all, my darling. Your happiness is my own, as is your pain. I _love_ you."

As you are whispering the same vow back to him, he touches his lips to yours - just barely - then turns you back again and begins to speak, soft and low into your ear - and - despite yourself - you're asleep within seconds, knowing even more surely than before that you are safe and loved in his arms.


End file.
